New SGA fic: Ronon/Sheppard, PG13
So I signed up for rounds_of_kink and was abysmal in that I didn't get my prompts done in time for round two. BUT I did write the first of the kink fics and I wanted to post it. So here it is.
Title: No Sky Can Blind You
Pairing: Sheppard/Dex
Rating: PG 13 to R for suggestion
Disclaimer: Umm, yeah. I totally own these guys and am rollin' in the dough. NOT! I's a poor English Teacher!
Prompt: by thady who asked for "dark, Dex/McKay or Dex/Sheppard. Her KINK was "Whispering close to someone's ear."
Summary: Ronon and John step through the gate against the warnings of Rodney, and what they encounter leaves them foundering in the darkness. What else can happen?
Word count: 1,474
Author's Note: beta'd by the lovely and all too generous piratepurple who also gave me the title, which was lifted from Mark Danielewski. And I apologize for making this over a month late. Yikes. I hope it satisfies and was worth the wait.
Feedback: Much appreciated. Either here in comments or by email: encchick2@yahoo.com
It’s sudden and frightening, but John won’t say anything or let it overwhelm him. Every other sense he has heightens to the point of pain. The tight straps of his holster chafe at his thigh. The chill in the night air is damp on his skin, raising goosebumps and hairs and making him shiver. There are sounds, distant and muted, and his ears pick up every one of them like they’re the only bits of information he’ll be able to process.
The stench in the forest coats his mouth and nose, and filters into his lungs until he’s sure he’ll be exhaling it forever. He spits, and the taste is even worse. How he got here is something worth sneering over. Rodney’s not usually wrong. He should have remembered that. Stepping through the gate in the midst of McKay telling him not to was probably not the best and brightest move he’s ever made, and standing in the pitch black night that apparently lasts for decades on this hellhole of a planet, he’s perfectly capable of making that admission.
It helps that Rodney’s not actually here to hear it, though. Just Ronon. Who has somehow disappeared in the very real and terrifying sense of the word. Because despite John’s heightened senses that now take in every bit of information but the visual, he can not hear, smell or feel Ronon anywhere.
“Dammit. He stepped through right behind me,” he mutters, lifting the P-90 in what he hopes is the direction of the whispered noise in the forest.
The darkness is thorough, and if there was a DHD on this side of the gate, it’s been swallowed by the night.
Just then, John remembers stories of the white outs on Antarctica. White outs that left seasoned men stranded in the open, not knowing where they’ve been or where they’re going, and he thinks for a moment that this planet, this night, is the antithesis of those stories. The blackest black out. The best course: stand still, stay put. Don’t wonder off in search of anything; the possibility of losing your place is too great.
While John wouldn’t call himself afraid to move, he figures it’s better if he just stands, or sits even, right where he is - not far from the gate, and waits for who or what ever may coming. His weapon ready, he sinks to the floor of the forest, surprised to feel the crisp but springy ground covering instead of the typical mud he’s used to.
“At least I won’t get too dirty,” he whispers to himself. He’s got to find some bright spot in this mess.
There’s another noise again, off to his left, and his head turns in that direction, eyes squinting painfully and futilely against the dark. He quiets his breathing, sinks in on himself, hoping that whatever is out there is just as blind as he is, though he honestly doubts it.
He thinks he hears the creak of leather, the mechanical whir of a pistol readying, and hopes that it’s Ronon, but again, there’s nothing else. Just silence and darkness and stench.
Hours, or minutes later, the whisper that he’d heard earlier sounds again, and he tilts his head in its direction, listening. There.
Almost non-existent, the soft tread of feet on the on the ground cover. His ears pick up the bending of the stalks, the press of a heel in the dirt, the crunch of a bootsole on an invisible rock. His finger rests on the trigger, calm, steady. His chin is in his chest, the posture of a man asleep, but he’s alert, ears trained on the faintest of sounds and his skin attuned to the slightest change in the motion of air against it.
He hates being blinded. Wishes he could see even just an outline of what was there, of the trees, of anything. But his ears are good. His ears are great.
Until the sound stops completely.
There’s nothing here, not even the distant chirp of birds or whatever it was he was hearing earlier. The tiniest sounds of another figure walking have stopped and John holds himself utterly still.
He waits for the attack.
“Sheppard.” The gruff voice is right in his ear, and the heat of the breath curls his stomach. His own breath hitches and the hand not holding his weapon flexes.
“Jesus, Ronon,” he groans, a whisper breaking the night.
“I’ve set up a perimeter, 10 yards out in all directions.” That voice is still in his ear, and John finds himself reassured by it.
“You can see in this?”
“No.”
He can almost feel the disdain pouring off Ronon, but he manages not to call him on it, remembering what Ronon’s life was like before they found him.
“Okay. Great. Perimeter. Good job. Where are we?”
“Not sure. There’s no life here though. Whether that’s because of the Wraith or not, I’m not sure.”
“So we’re stuck here for the time being. No hope of rescue.” Frustration hones a sharp edge into John’s tone, and he almost apologizes for it, but Ronon lays a hand on his shoulder, squeezing.
“There’s never hope of rescue, there just is or isn’t one.”
And with that, Ronon settles onto the ground, his knee brushing John’s. It’s as though Ronon is keeping tabs on him, the feel of his knee in the usual tight leather a constant pressure on John’s own.
John goes quiet again, listening to Ronon and the furtive sounds he makes in the dark. There are metallic clicks and slides, muffled, as John assumes he works with his pistol. There’s a whisper of fabric over skin and hair, and the slap of something soft but whispy on skin.
“Are you taking off your clothes?” He can’t help but ask.
“Do you have a problem with that?”
John frowns. He’s pretty sure he doesn’t have a problem with it, but then again, he could make out every sound of every inch of material as it slid from Ronon’s skin. It may just be the darkness and proximity and the very long time since John’s had any kind of sex, but the sound without the visual has his body drawn tight and focused on Ronon.
He swallows.
The knee that’s been against his for what feels like forever, slides along his thigh, and John shudders. He knows Ronon’s stretching out now, laying in the soft ground cover and using his shirt as a pillow. John’s not going to do that.
He’s going to stay awake and watch over his team, even if it’s just the two of them. He’s so determined to do this that he settles his mouth into a grim line and straightens his back. He closes his eyes - they’re useless in this pitch anyway - and focuses on the noises and scents and motions of the forest.
Eventually, Ronon’s silent breathing becomes discernible, long slow draughts of air that are hypnotic in their cadence. John listens to them, lets them wash over him like waves, feels his eyes closing and his own breath slowing to match the rhythm of Ronon’s.
He doesn’t know when he drifted to sleep, nor when he laid down on the soft ground, but he wakes up to the soft breath whispering in his ear words he doesn’t understand, but the voice is familiar, even so quiet as to be just breath.
It’s still pitch black around them, but there’s warmth that had been absent before. Heaviness draped across his chest and thighs, and John lifts a hand to that heaviness and feels the hot skin of Ronon’s arm, the crisp hair on his thigh.
Lips brush his ear, soft, smooth, and he shivers. Carefully, not wanting to disturb Ronon from his sleep and be pressed to death by the strong arm and thigh over him, John turns his head to the side and whispers, “Ronon.”
He wishes he could see.
If he could, he’d know that he’d turned his head so that the barest movement of his lips had them brushing against Ronon’s. He’d see that Ronon’s eyes were closed in sleep and moving rapidly behind heavy lids in dreams.
He’d see, before he felt, Ronon’s mouth close on his.
John knows if he could see enough to make out even a silhouette, he could see a way to get away from what was happening. But he couldn’t. And Ronon’s lips are warm, his thigh and arm possessive in a way that John would normally vault from, but in this darkness is acceptable and safe.
He kisses Ronon back.
He feels the brush of lashes against his face and knows that Ronon’s awake now.
“Sheppard?” The voice is sleep-rough and gravelly, but not shocked. And right at his ear, it’s the hottest thing John’s ever heard in the dead of night.
The End
Title: No Sky Can Blind You
Pairing: Sheppard/Dex
Rating: PG 13 to R for suggestion
Disclaimer: Umm, yeah. I totally own these guys and am rollin' in the dough. NOT! I's a poor English Teacher!
Prompt: by thady who asked for "dark, Dex/McKay or Dex/Sheppard. Her KINK was "Whispering close to someone's ear."
Summary: Ronon and John step through the gate against the warnings of Rodney, and what they encounter leaves them foundering in the darkness. What else can happen?
Word count: 1,474
Author's Note: beta'd by the lovely and all too generous piratepurple who also gave me the title, which was lifted from Mark Danielewski. And I apologize for making this over a month late. Yikes. I hope it satisfies and was worth the wait.
Feedback: Much appreciated. Either here in comments or by email: encchick2@yahoo.com
It’s sudden and frightening, but John won’t say anything or let it overwhelm him. Every other sense he has heightens to the point of pain. The tight straps of his holster chafe at his thigh. The chill in the night air is damp on his skin, raising goosebumps and hairs and making him shiver. There are sounds, distant and muted, and his ears pick up every one of them like they’re the only bits of information he’ll be able to process.
The stench in the forest coats his mouth and nose, and filters into his lungs until he’s sure he’ll be exhaling it forever. He spits, and the taste is even worse. How he got here is something worth sneering over. Rodney’s not usually wrong. He should have remembered that. Stepping through the gate in the midst of McKay telling him not to was probably not the best and brightest move he’s ever made, and standing in the pitch black night that apparently lasts for decades on this hellhole of a planet, he’s perfectly capable of making that admission.
It helps that Rodney’s not actually here to hear it, though. Just Ronon. Who has somehow disappeared in the very real and terrifying sense of the word. Because despite John’s heightened senses that now take in every bit of information but the visual, he can not hear, smell or feel Ronon anywhere.
“Dammit. He stepped through right behind me,” he mutters, lifting the P-90 in what he hopes is the direction of the whispered noise in the forest.
The darkness is thorough, and if there was a DHD on this side of the gate, it’s been swallowed by the night.
Just then, John remembers stories of the white outs on Antarctica. White outs that left seasoned men stranded in the open, not knowing where they’ve been or where they’re going, and he thinks for a moment that this planet, this night, is the antithesis of those stories. The blackest black out. The best course: stand still, stay put. Don’t wonder off in search of anything; the possibility of losing your place is too great.
While John wouldn’t call himself afraid to move, he figures it’s better if he just stands, or sits even, right where he is - not far from the gate, and waits for who or what ever may coming. His weapon ready, he sinks to the floor of the forest, surprised to feel the crisp but springy ground covering instead of the typical mud he’s used to.
“At least I won’t get too dirty,” he whispers to himself. He’s got to find some bright spot in this mess.
There’s another noise again, off to his left, and his head turns in that direction, eyes squinting painfully and futilely against the dark. He quiets his breathing, sinks in on himself, hoping that whatever is out there is just as blind as he is, though he honestly doubts it.
He thinks he hears the creak of leather, the mechanical whir of a pistol readying, and hopes that it’s Ronon, but again, there’s nothing else. Just silence and darkness and stench.
Hours, or minutes later, the whisper that he’d heard earlier sounds again, and he tilts his head in its direction, listening. There.
Almost non-existent, the soft tread of feet on the on the ground cover. His ears pick up the bending of the stalks, the press of a heel in the dirt, the crunch of a bootsole on an invisible rock. His finger rests on the trigger, calm, steady. His chin is in his chest, the posture of a man asleep, but he’s alert, ears trained on the faintest of sounds and his skin attuned to the slightest change in the motion of air against it.
He hates being blinded. Wishes he could see even just an outline of what was there, of the trees, of anything. But his ears are good. His ears are great.
Until the sound stops completely.
There’s nothing here, not even the distant chirp of birds or whatever it was he was hearing earlier. The tiniest sounds of another figure walking have stopped and John holds himself utterly still.
He waits for the attack.
“Sheppard.” The gruff voice is right in his ear, and the heat of the breath curls his stomach. His own breath hitches and the hand not holding his weapon flexes.
“Jesus, Ronon,” he groans, a whisper breaking the night.
“I’ve set up a perimeter, 10 yards out in all directions.” That voice is still in his ear, and John finds himself reassured by it.
“You can see in this?”
“No.”
He can almost feel the disdain pouring off Ronon, but he manages not to call him on it, remembering what Ronon’s life was like before they found him.
“Okay. Great. Perimeter. Good job. Where are we?”
“Not sure. There’s no life here though. Whether that’s because of the Wraith or not, I’m not sure.”
“So we’re stuck here for the time being. No hope of rescue.” Frustration hones a sharp edge into John’s tone, and he almost apologizes for it, but Ronon lays a hand on his shoulder, squeezing.
“There’s never hope of rescue, there just is or isn’t one.”
And with that, Ronon settles onto the ground, his knee brushing John’s. It’s as though Ronon is keeping tabs on him, the feel of his knee in the usual tight leather a constant pressure on John’s own.
John goes quiet again, listening to Ronon and the furtive sounds he makes in the dark. There are metallic clicks and slides, muffled, as John assumes he works with his pistol. There’s a whisper of fabric over skin and hair, and the slap of something soft but whispy on skin.
“Are you taking off your clothes?” He can’t help but ask.
“Do you have a problem with that?”
John frowns. He’s pretty sure he doesn’t have a problem with it, but then again, he could make out every sound of every inch of material as it slid from Ronon’s skin. It may just be the darkness and proximity and the very long time since John’s had any kind of sex, but the sound without the visual has his body drawn tight and focused on Ronon.
He swallows.
The knee that’s been against his for what feels like forever, slides along his thigh, and John shudders. He knows Ronon’s stretching out now, laying in the soft ground cover and using his shirt as a pillow. John’s not going to do that.
He’s going to stay awake and watch over his team, even if it’s just the two of them. He’s so determined to do this that he settles his mouth into a grim line and straightens his back. He closes his eyes - they’re useless in this pitch anyway - and focuses on the noises and scents and motions of the forest.
Eventually, Ronon’s silent breathing becomes discernible, long slow draughts of air that are hypnotic in their cadence. John listens to them, lets them wash over him like waves, feels his eyes closing and his own breath slowing to match the rhythm of Ronon’s.
He doesn’t know when he drifted to sleep, nor when he laid down on the soft ground, but he wakes up to the soft breath whispering in his ear words he doesn’t understand, but the voice is familiar, even so quiet as to be just breath.
It’s still pitch black around them, but there’s warmth that had been absent before. Heaviness draped across his chest and thighs, and John lifts a hand to that heaviness and feels the hot skin of Ronon’s arm, the crisp hair on his thigh.
Lips brush his ear, soft, smooth, and he shivers. Carefully, not wanting to disturb Ronon from his sleep and be pressed to death by the strong arm and thigh over him, John turns his head to the side and whispers, “Ronon.”
He wishes he could see.
If he could, he’d know that he’d turned his head so that the barest movement of his lips had them brushing against Ronon’s. He’d see that Ronon’s eyes were closed in sleep and moving rapidly behind heavy lids in dreams.
He’d see, before he felt, Ronon’s mouth close on his.
John knows if he could see enough to make out even a silhouette, he could see a way to get away from what was happening. But he couldn’t. And Ronon’s lips are warm, his thigh and arm possessive in a way that John would normally vault from, but in this darkness is acceptable and safe.
He kisses Ronon back.
He feels the brush of lashes against his face and knows that Ronon’s awake now.
“Sheppard?” The voice is sleep-rough and gravelly, but not shocked. And right at his ear, it’s the hottest thing John’s ever heard in the dead of night.
The End